I’m perfect.

Do you see, do you see how perfect I am?
Do you see how perfectly I fix my face to look lovely?
Do you see how perfectly I do my hair to look so soft and beautiful?
Do you see how perfectly I act?

Everything about me is perfect, I know you think it.
It’s in your eyes when you look at me while I walk down the halls.

You stare at the people who are vying for my attention, and you think I’m just perfect as you mouth the words;
“God, I hate her.”

And so I tell myself, every day, just how perfect I am.
When I wake up in the morning, I think of how perfectly I must have looked while I slept.
When I shower I look down and admire just how perfectly I’m shaped.
When I fix my perfect hair and do my perfect make-up, I tell myself just how perfect I truly I am.

And when I walk into the kitchen and see him leaning against the counter,
When I smile and choke down the newest ­flavor of bile that rises in my throat, I still know I’m perfect.
When I don’t bother to ask his name because I know he’ll be gone before I get home, I know I’m perfect.
When he leers at me and agrees with how perfect I am, I know how perfect I am.

And when I walk out the door.
And when I reach the bus stop.
And when I greet everyone with a hug.
And every time I breathe.
Every time I know just how f---ing perfect I am.

So perfect I could scream.
So perfect …
I feel full of perfection, full and round like a balloon,
Stretched so tight with perfection I just might pop and all my perfection wouldn’t make any difference.
That’s how f----ing perfect I feel!

Ah, but it’s okay. Because no matter how tight it stretches me, no matter how painful it is, I’m still perfect.
I still look perfect.
I still act perfect.
And I still feel perfectly vile residing within this skin.
But that’s not at all how I should feel.

No, no, no.
Perfect. I should feel … perfect.
And so I’ll tell myself; smile perfectly, dress perfectly.
Because I’m supposed to be f---ing perfect.

Because when I curl up at night and laugh and laugh just to hold back my tears, I’m still perfect.
Even when my face crumples and turns red and ugly, I know I’m perfect.
Because when you add the right details, when you fake the right things, add just enough empty space,
It makes you perfect.

All it takes is the right punctuation.
All it takes is the right spaces and spelling.
A little capitalization and it’s perfect.
I’m perfect.

I’m perfect.
I’mperfect.
Imperfect.

… I guess I lied.